


A Reimagining

by Gods_Trumpet



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Gen, Multi, Screenplay/Script Format, Season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-10-05 07:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10301633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gods_Trumpet/pseuds/Gods_Trumpet
Summary: I hated Season Three.I disagreed with nearly every decision, thought it was pandering and sloppy, broke characterizations for the sake of the bloated, poorly paced plot, and stretched the suspension of disbelief to almost disrespectful lengths. Before the season was half over I had become completely discouraged and my faith in the show was never restored. As someone who cares about writing, Season Three was offensively bad. As someone who writes and consumes fanfiction, I think it is an insult to the medium to even call Season Three 'fanfiction.'So I decided to rewrite it, in full TV script format.Is this a petty and ridiculous endeavor? Yes. Absolutely.





	

**Author's Note:**

> HANNIBAL REWRITTEN S3E01
> 
> “GHOST OF A FLEA”
> 
> \-----
> 
> (The first episode contains occasional borrowing of lines or set pieces from the show; however, the vast majority of this script is original content.)

TEASER

INT. HANNIBAL’S KITCHEN- NIGHT

HANNIBAL LECTER stands in his kitchen, preparing dinner. The room is silent for a few moments, save for the ambient sounds of a knife chopping through meat. Hannibal is distracted by the ringing of a phone. He answers.

HANNIBAL LECTER  
_(into phone)_  
Hello?

WILL GRAHAM (V.O)  
They know.

Hannibal hangs up without a response. He looks put out, thoughtful, and sets the phone in its cradle. He makes no immediate moves.

Across the island of his kitchen stands ABIGAIL HOBBS, arms folded across her chest. Her uncertainty makes her cagey.

ABIGAIL HOBBS  
Aren’t we going?

HANNIBAL LECTER  
_(smiling)_  
First, we must wait for Will to arrive. It would be unseemly of us to fail our duties as hosts.

Hannibal idly wipes the knife clean with a towel. 

The knife and a hint of the towel. The flat of the blade shows an indistinct reflection of Abigail as the sticky residue is removed. A low roaring starts up, like rushing water from far away. As the knife pulls away, the white towel turns to dark red in uneven splashes.

HANNIBAL’S KITCHEN- NIGHT

From above, WILL GRAHAM and Abigail are lying together on the floor, blood covering the wood panels. They look like cast-aside dolls, one of Will’s arms extended in an aborted effort to staunch Abigail’s bleeding. She is on her back, hands limp over her neck. Will shudders violently, sounding like the breath has been knocked out of him; Abigail twitches, much more weakly, with the occasional gasp for air.

The sound of rushing liquid reaches a roar. Abigail goes still. Viscous reddish-black liquid pours in from all sides, and swirls around their bodies so that they are buried by the thick rising tide. Will struggles until his head is submerged.

EXT. LIMBO- TIME INDETERMINABLE

The scene is pitch black and featureless, the sound of water joined by discordant hand-bells. Will stumbles forward from the side of the frame, covered in the dark liquid, and collapses onto his hands and knees. He wheezes and shudders violently, coughing up mouthfuls of liquid. The substance runs off of his body in thick rivulets. When he catches his breath, he wipes his sticky, damp hair out of his face and looks around.

There is a glint of ivory against the monochrome black of his surroundings, several feet away from him, and Will shuffles painfully towards it.

His hand finally knocks against the distant glint, which proves to be Hannibal’s short, curved knife. He picks it up and weighs it in his hand.

In confusion, he looks around himself, up at the empty sky.

WILL GRAHAM  
Hannibal?

Then down at the blade. The bells rise to a screaming pitch. He lifts up the knife and jams it deep into his stomach. He lets out a scream of pain that is mostly drowned by the background noise, dragging the knife through his abdomen. Black liquid gushes out.

Sudden silence, CUT TO BLACK.

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM- DAY  
The first thing to appear is Will’s face, blurred. He tosses his head back and forth and blinking harshly. There is a quiet, high pitched background noise, like the buzz of tinnitus.

NURSE (O.S)  
_(to a co-worker)_  
He’s waking up…  
_(to Will)_  
How are you feeling?

WILL GRAHAM  
Thirsty…

A cup of water with a straw is held to his lips. As he drinks, the image of his face comes further into focus, looking much the worse for wear. It is a strain to keep his eyes open for very long. The high pitched sound fades.

WILL GRAHAM  
Thank you.

NURSE (O.S)  
You have a visitor. Would you like to see?

WILL GRAHAM  
_(nodding)_  
Yes.

The isolated, concrete-wall room is shown from Will’s position in bed. It is dark grey, lit poorly by lamps; the majority of the light in the room comes from outside. The nurse leaves, disappearing into the light.

An indistinguishable figure, moves through the brightly lit doorway. The hazy silhouette gives way to something more solid as it moves away from the blinding light of the waiting room.

FREDERICK CHILTON stands in the middle of the hospital room, holding a bouquet of flowers wrapped in paper. It isn’t the standard, hospital store get-well bouquet- the main components are stephanotis, white roses, closed orange lilies, and bunches of green sweet william. 

He is smiling in a way that is surprisingly not insufferable, considering. He has what looks to be a faint scar across his cheek, covered with makeup to match his skin tone.

Will furrows his brows. He is prone in the hospital bed, everything from his hips down covered by white sheets and his middle wrapped in bandage.

WILL GRAHAM  
Frederick?

FREDERICK CHILTON  
_(lightly)_  
You were expecting someone else?

WILL GRAHAM  
_(turning head away)_  
I was hoping for someone else.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
I don’t fault you for that, but everyone whose company you would prefer is laid up, much like yourself. I wanted to make sure I saw you as soon as you were awake.

Frederick takes a few small steps forward. He looks directly at Will, keeping his head low, looking at him from under his lashes.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
How do you feel?

WILL GRAHAM  
Like hell, thanks.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
I’ve been there. It takes time…  
They say it was surgical. He knew exactly where to cut you, with the intention that you would live through it. Ironically, they also said that you flatlined for around twenty seconds. You were very resolved to spite him by dying anyway.

WILL GRAHAM  
I died?

FREDERICK CHILTON  
_(attempting to joke, lamely)_  
For twenty seconds. It’s hardly anything to brag about.  
_(more sober)_  
I know how you must feel. My heart stopped for an entire minute during surgery. It’s strange to hear that you spent a minute essentially dead, and all the while you couldn’t feel a thing.

WILL GRAHAM  
If this were a competition, you would have me on those extra forty seconds. We both defied Hannibal’s expectations, though. You, by living, I, by dying.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Would you like to try it again?

WILL GRAHAM  
Try what? Defying expectations, or dying?

FREDERICK CHILTON  
The former, hopefully. I’d like to think that we’d do so, with what I had in mind.

WILL GRAHAM  
I don’t know who you think ‘we’ are, but I’m fairly certain that we won’t.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
I think I’d like to keep ‘we’ to the two of us, to avoid complication. And, though I’m sure he does expect you to come looking for him, anyone who knows you, knows I’m the last person you’d ever--

WILL GRAHAM  
_(cutting him off)_  
You’re incredible. I should have known you couldn’t be here out of human decency.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
The reason I am asking you at all is out of human decency. I can help you finish what you started. Please. I have great empathy for you; I have literally felt your pain. What he did to you, he did to me, as much for fun as for necessity. I think it eats you just the same as it eats me, that he got away with it.

WILL GRAHAM  
I’m not surprised that’s your idea of human decency. You know what happened to the last person to ask me to catch Hannibal. You’re not this stupid. Set me on the trail again, how do you think this will go?

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Better than if you went after him alone, which you’d no doubt do anyway, given enough time to yourself. Everything that happened just proved that you need to be kept on a shorter leash.

WILL GRAHAM  
Get out of here.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Am I wrong? Do you think you’ll just stand still in back-country Virginia for the rest of your life, knowing he’s out there, when you could change that?

WILL GRAHAM  
Standing still is better than trying to change what I can’t even touch. I’m done.

Will drags a hand down his face.

FREDERICK CHILTON (O.S)  
You're entitled to your doubts, Will, but I want to help you as much as I want to help myself.

WILL GRAHAM  
I imagine that’s a new sensation.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Relatively.

Beat. Frederick opens his mouth to say more, but thinks better of it and shuts it again. He moves around to the side of Will’s bed.

FREDERICK CHILTON (CONT’D)  
I suppose it’s natural that I’ve become attached to you. He killed the both of us. We have matching scars.

WILL GRAHAM  
You have a scar. I haven’t had the time.  
(indicating flowers)  
Are those for me?

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Of course. It’s miserable to wake up to a barren hospital room. I ought to know, I did it twice.

NEW ANGLE on Frederick as he sets down his bouquet on the bedstand.

WILL GRAHAM  
Are you trying to make me feel guilty now, Frederick?

FREDERICK CHILTON  
No. So many things happened because I didn’t believe you, none of them good for either of us. Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t bring myself flowers either. This time, I need you to believe in me. This is a token of reconciliation to that effect. I considered using olive branch for filler, but that would have been very obvious.

WILL GRAHAM  
This isn’t exactly subtle either. Thought I saw white roses.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
I hadn’t counted on you knowing your flowers.

WILL GRAHAM  
Everyone knows what roses look like.

Awkwardly, Frederick pats the bouquet, before walking back around to the foot of Will’s bed, preparing to leave.

FREDERICK CHILTON WILL GRAHAM  
I’ll ask the nurse to put them in water-- Is Abigail--?

They both stop. Frederick clears his throat, looking caught.

WILL GRAHAM  
Is Abigail alive?

FREDERICK CHILTON  
_(pause)_  
No. She was gone when the ambulance arrived. I’m very--

Will takes a deep breath and presses his hand to the bandages wrapped around his abdomen. He shuts his eyes.

FREDERICK CHILTON (O.S)  
I’ll ask the nurse to put the flowers in water, in case you decide that you want them.

WILL GRAHAM  
Thank you.

Retreating footsteps indicate that Frederick has left the room. When he is sure that he is alone, Will turns his head and opens his eyes.

WILL GRAHAM  
You should go now.

Abigail stands on the other side of Will’s bed stand in a white hospital gown, deathly pale, examining the flowers in the bouquet. Her neck is taped up with gauze, and she smiles peacefully.

ABIGAIL HOBBS  
Are you sure that’s what you want?

WILL GRAHAM  
It’s what I want for you. It’s what I should have wanted from the beginning. Get you away from all of this. I wasn’t… a very good father.

ABIGAIL HOBBS  
No, you weren’t. But if it’s any comfort, you weren’t the worst of my fathers…  
“The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true.” For better or for worse, this is your best possible world, Will. Maybe it was mine, too- who knows? But it’s the only chance you get. Are you sure you want me to go?

WILL GRAHAM  
_(nodding)_  
Yes. I’m sorry.

Abigail is now in the clothes she wore on the night of her death, soaked and spattered with her own blood. Her lips are ashen and her eyes are glazed. The side of her neck is clearly sliced open. She smiles and fiddles with the flowers.

ABIGAIL HOBBS  
Don’t be. I don’t mind.

FADE TO WHITE

END TEASER

 

\-----

 

ACT ONE

INT. HANNIBAL’S KITCHEN- NIGHT

INT. PANTRY

JACK CRAWFORD slumps on the ground, bleeding heavily, a piece of broken glass stuck in his neck. His phone is loosely held in one hand, making a call to BELLA CRAWFORD. The sound of her voice is heard indistinctly through the phone.

His other hand clutches his neck, trying to slow the bleeding as much as he can. He looks weak.

BELLA CRAWFORD (V.O.)  
_(distantly)_  
Jack?

He seems to be about to say something in response. At the last moment, he either changes his mind, or loses the strength. His eyes shut.

FADE TO WHITE

FADE TO:

INT. CRAWFORD HOME- DAY (MORNING)

INT. CRAWFORD BEDROOM

CAMERA looks down from above. Jack and Bella lie in matching hospital beds. Their positioning mirrors that of Will and Abigail earlier: Bella is on her side, arm slightly extended towards her husband, who is flat on his back. His eyes open slowly. Her eyes are open already, waiting for him to wake up. They have been dressed in matching paper gowns.

The tone of a heart monitor is heard. The room is bright and soft, as though blurring at the edges.

JACK CRAWFORD  
Bella?

BELLA CRAWFORD  
I’m here, Jack. 

Jack turns his head stiffly to look at her.

BELLA CRAWFORD (CONT’D)  
You called me.

JACK CRAWFORD  
I wanted to hear your voice. I thought if I could hear your voice, we both wouldn’t have to die alone.

BELLA CRAWFORD  
I kept thinking, how funny it was that after all of this time we’ve spent getting ready, you’d go before I do. For once, I’m glad you’re stubborn.

JACK CRAWFORD  
Did they get him?

BELLA CRAWFORD  
Would it make a difference if they did?

JACK CRAWFORD  
It would have been something to die over if they had.

BELLA CRAWFORD  
You’re not going in the ground with me, Jack. So stop trying.

JACK CRAWFORD  
I was dead. I knew I was dead…

BELLA CRAWFORD  
You want to tell me what it was like?

JACK CRAWFORD  
I’m not sure I know what it was like. Don’t know if that helps.

BELLA CRAWFORD  
It doesn’t hurt. I’m not afraid of what it will be like to be dead. I’m more curious about any what-ifs than I am frightened of any absolutes.

Her brow furrows tightly and she pulls her arm close to her body. Jack attempts to sit up; Bella opens her palm to stop him, and he freezes.

Jack lets himself sink back into the hospital bed, tortured. He looks up at the ceiling, away from her, though her gaze on him remains firm.

BELLA CRAWFORD  
You can do something I can’t. You can cut out what’s killing you.

INT/ EXT. WILL’S BARN- DAY

A car pulls up into Will’s gravel drive, exciting the DOGS, some of whom begin to bark and approach. It is early autumn by now, the colors of things are muted. Will’s barn door is open. His car is parked next to the barn, the hood popped. Will stands in the doorway; he wears flannel over oil-stained jeans.

The sounds of the car and the dogs have reached him, and he peers out of the barn door. He grimaces and turns away.

Jack steps out of the car, and by now the dogs have begun trying to surround and inspect him. They are familiar enough with him that they have stopped barking.

Will hunches over a half-dismantled car engine with a screwdriver in hand, back turned to Jack. The barn is dark inside, and over his shoulder Jack is out in the light, stopped a few feet away from the entrance. It is difficult to make out Will’s backlit face.

In an attempt to ignore the impending conversation, Will takes his tool to the engine to continue taking it apart. Distantly, the dogs are entertaining themselves, sniffing around Jack’s car- all except for WINSTON, who sits loyally just outside the barn door.

JACK CRAWFORD  
I had hoped you would come look for me. But I understand why you didn’t.

WILL GRAHAM  
There’s nothing I needed to say to you.

JACK CRAWFORD  
You don’t seem to know when there is something you should to say to me. I was being generous in waiting so long to come calling.

WILL GRAHAM  
Am I getting another slap on the wrist?

JACK CRAWFORD  
Not that I’ve heard.

WILL GRAHAM  
Then what are you here for?

Will pulls the fuel injector off and sets it aside, wiping his hands idly on his jeans. Jack looks in the direction of Will’s gutted car.

JACK CRAWFORD  
What’s the problem?

WILL GRAHAM  
Probably nothing.  
_(beat)_  
I’m a little busy, Jack.

JACK CRAWFORD  
_(looking back to him)_  
I’m here to make sure that you don’t contradict the official narrative. For your own sake.

Snorting, Will grabs an oily brown rag and cleans his hands more thoroughly. He half-turns to Jack, eyebrows raised.

WILL GRAHAM  
_(dryly)_  
We were officers of the FBI, wounded in the course of heroic duty, right? But we both know that’s not true.

JACK CRAWFORD  
I don’t claim to know what you know.

WILL GRAHAM  
I’m tired, Jack. I’m not going to fight you on this, but I won’t let you bring it into my house either.

JACK CRAWFORD  
We were supposed to go together. That’s my foul. My bad. Things would have been different.

WILL GRAHAM  
Better that we didn’t.  
_(turning back to the engine)_  
We parse ourselves into smaller and smaller pieces, because they’re easier to justify, and to consume. That aspect of me is a horse pill. We have to learn how to swallow him whole.

JACK CRAWFORD  
That’s the part of you that decided to call Hannibal?

WILL GRAHAM  
Maybe. I wasn’t quite decided when I called him; I just did. I deliberated while the phone rang.

JACK CRAWFORD  
You told him we knew.

WILL GRAHAM  
That’s ‘cause I wanted him to run.

JACK CRAWFORD  
Why?

WILL GRAHAM  
Because I couldn’t go with him, and I couldn’t let him stay. He was my friend. Part of me wanted to forgive him.

JACK CRAWFORD  
Do you?

Will sighs and sets to pulling apart more engine components. Behind him, Jack slides his hands into his deep coat pockets and watches.

A screw rolls off the edge of the work table. Will watches from above as it falls at half-speed, accompanied by jarring, staccato percussion. It hits the floor, bounces with a reverberating ping.

EXT. HANNIBAL'S HOUSE- NIGHT

The shot continues to move at half-speed. Rain in the darkness strikes and shatters itself against the sidewalk.

ALANA BLOOM is seen from above, in the middle of falling out of a third story window. Shattered glass and splintered wood fall with her. Her mouth is open in shock. Behind her, the wet concrete rushes up. She hits the ground. The music stops.

The view switches to her side, and her bones are heard snapping as her body collides spine-first with the concrete. From above once more, her face distorts with intense pain. She cries out silently.

CUT TO BLACK

EXT. LIMBO- TIME INDETERMINABLE

Alana crouches on her hands and knees in the realm of total blackness. She does not move or speak, just breathes loudly and heavily. She wears nothing but a thick, coarse blanket draped around her body, and she holds it closed with one hand. Her hair falls over her face.

Footsteps and stone-scraping resound in the emptiness. Alana whips her head up, breaths growing faster and more labored. Hannibal stands in front of her, a few feet away. He wears the same clothes as he had the night he left, but pristine, without blood or even a wrinkle. He holds a cattle-knocking sledgehammer, leaning on it like a scepter. Alana tries to speak, but can only produce sounds of pain. She clenches her jaw.

Hannibal looks truly sad. Their gazes lock.

HANNIBAL LECTER  
Close your eyes.

Alana refuses. Hannibal walks around to her side, dragging the massive hammer. The head of it is just about the size of Alana’s own head. The sound it makes against the ground is grating, like millstones turning.

HANNIBAL LECTER  
It will hurt less if you can’t see it coming.

Her eyes follow him all the way. Hannibal smiles sadly, but still steadies his grip on the hammer. His muscles visibly shift under the shirt. He lifts it up and swings in a wide arc, aimed right for the middle of her back.

INT. ALANA’S HOME- NIGHT (BEFORE DAWN)

BEDROOM

Alana lies in bed, on her back, her head and neck propped up on a pillow. The room is dark and her blinds are closed, so it is difficult to see the details of her face. She is wide awake, staring blankly at the ceiling. Resigning herself to a night without sleep, she pushes herself upright.

There is a wheelchair beside her bed, which she maneuvers herself into with some effort. She still has some rudimentary use of her legs, but movement is difficult and painful. The effort of swinging herself into her chair leaves her all but winded, wincing in pain. She sits in the chair, bent forward over her legs, with a tight grip on her knees.

Alana moves her wheelchair into the HALL. The walls are barren and eggshell-white. She wheels herself out slowly, passing by a room full of equipment for her physical therapy, and the guest bedroom, where her live-in PHYSICAL THERAPIST, DR. NEELAM, sleeps unseen. His breaths are loud, heavy, and even.

She stops in front of one of the doors and pushes it open.

INT. BATHROOM

Alana flicks on a lightswitch as she maneuvers herself awkwardly into the room. Her face is seen clearly for the first time since she woke up, and she looks in poor health; the bags are heavy and dark under her eyes and her face is otherwise colorless. It should be very obvious that she isn’t wearing any makeup.

The doorway is only just wide enough to squeeze her wheelchair through. An assortment of pill bottles line the sink. The one she selects is oxycodone. She shakes the bottle to idly test the sound before she opens it.

Alana thinks for a moment before pouring the entire bottle of oxycodone out onto the counter. Using her fingers, she spreads the contents out and counts them; there are around 20 little yellow 40 mg pills in total.

She sets one pill aside and scoops the rest back into the bottle and shuts it. She takes the remaining pill and swallows it with a small cup of water.

As she backs her chair out of the bathroom, she sees herself in the mirror and stops, tilts her head up to examine her face from different angles. She doesn’t like what she sees.

Three soft knocks are heard.

EXT/ INT. ALANA’S HOME- DAY (AFTERNOON)

EXT. FACADE

Frederick Chilton stands in front of Alana’s door, suit jacket folded over his arm. Nobody answers the door immediately, so he leans over and tries to peer through the windows, only to be foiled by the drawn curtains. Impatient, he raises his hand to knock again. The door opens first.

Dr. Neelam, a good looking South Asian man in his mid 40s, answers. Frederick sizes him up immediately. He puts on his smarmy little smile.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Is Dr. Bloom accepting visitors?

Dr. Neelam seems unsure for a moment, looks over his shoulder. None of the lights are on inside the house.

ALANA BLOOM (O.S.)  
_(from another room)_  
Come inside, Frederick. It took you long enough. I expected you sooner.

INT. FOYER

Frederick flicks on the foyer light as Dr. Neelam shuts the door behind him. He stops for a moment and looks back at Dr. Neelam, and offers his hand. He raises his voice enough to be heard in the next room.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
_(to Alana)_  
I sent flowers ahead. Did you not get them?

Dr. Neelam takes Frederick’s hand for a quick, professional shake, and withdraws; Frederick fishes for eye contact, but Dr. Neelam evades it and gestures towards the sitting room.

ALANA BLOOM (O.S.)  
The delivery must have missed.

Frederick clicks his tongue, turns around to make his way out of the room and towards Alana.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Shame. I arranged them myself.

INT. SITTING ROOM

Frederick turns on the lights as he enters, eyebrows raised. Alana sits in her wheelchair at a low table, her laptop open and surrounded by papers. She doesn’t look up at Frederick when he enters, and her eyes scan over whatever she is reading on her screen. Her hair is tied back, and she looks nearly as sick and haggard as before. He stops just through the doorway, taking everything in first.

ALANA BLOOM  
That was thoughtful of you. If you’re not here to bring me flowers, I can only assume that you’ve come to gloat, in which case my doctor can show you the door back out.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Everyone assumes the worst of me lately.

ALANA BLOOM  
In everyone’s defense, you’re not a difficult person to think poorly of.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
No beating around the bush. I’ll admit, I’m constantly tempted to remind you that I really had warned you, but I refrain. I preferred you when you were charitable. What’s changed?

He walks forward until he stands directly across from her. She still hasn’t looked up at him once.

ALANA BLOOM  
The doctors said when I fell, a lot of bone marrow got into my bloodstream, and I should expect to start thinking differently. I’m not sure if marrow has anything to do with it, but I’ve long suspected being pushed out a window might change one’s perspective.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Would you care to tell me--

Frederick pushes down the screen of her laptop closed so that she can’t read it, and has to look up at him.

FREDERICK CHILTON (CONT’D)  
\--what it is you’re thinking about?

Alana meets his eyes coolly. She folds her hands on the table and leans back in her chair. Frederick takes the hint and moves a half step away, rubbing his fingers together as though trying to wipe away a feeling of grime.

When she refuses to answer, Frederick turns away and slowly paces the room while he speaks. He looks up and down her walls, which are devoid of photos or decorations, like he’s trying to psychoanalyze them. She tracks him around the room.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
I can’t help but be concerned. No one blames you for resigning in the face of such tragedy as you have faced; not everyone can bounce back from trauma, after all. But I read your recent interview with that Lounds woman, and I feel that it isn’t healthy for you to maintain this obsession with Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter.

ALANA BLOOM  
Did you feel threatened, Frederick?

FREDERICK CHILTON  
_(over his shoulder)_  
You are in a vulnerable position, my dear, I am not. You don’t frighten a lamb.

ALANA BLOOM  
The Bureau shut down all investigations into Randall Tier’s murder, and the bloodbath at the house. Put them on hiatus. Officially, it’s all Hannibal’s responsibility, until further notice. You don’t take issue to the inconsistencies?

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Why do you keep pushing the issue? One would think you’d learn better.

ALANA BLOOM  
People should know what happened.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Alright. Blow the whistle if you must, if it makes you feel better; people don’t have the register to hear it. They love Hannibal when he’s the prince of darkness, made of smoke and snakeskin, but in the flesh?  
_(scoffs)_  
You should see the shrines they make to him on the internet. Will complicates the narrative. They prefer fairytales. The flesh is banal.

ALANA BLOOM  
That’s an interesting dichotomy. Flesh or fairytale. Which one is Will Graham to you? Certainly he’s not banal, considering how badly you used to want him in your hospital. How much more useful to you is he outside of it?

FREDERICK CHILTON  
_(facing her)_  
Will Graham is no longer your business.

ALANA BLOOM  
I’d argue he’d rather not be yours either.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
He’ll come to appreciate me, as long as you stay uninvolved. At the very least he likes that I don’t want to see him imprisoned.

ALANA BLOOM  
What I want for Will is what I’ve always wanted: for people to stop pushing him. And if it takes a federal investigation just to keep him in the country and away from--

FREDERICK CHILTON  
_(cutting her off)_  
I haven’t encouraged him to do anything he won’t eventually do on his own. He’s like you, no closure. Hungry eyes. Have you seen him?

ALANA BLOOM  
I don’t get out much.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
You’d understand if you could see. Hannibal is still pushing him.

ALANA BLOOM  
I already understand. It’s like trying to resist gravity. I’m pulling myself back up; Will cannot.

FREDERICK CHILTON  
Maybe not, but he won’t thank you for telling him not to try.

Alana silently opens her laptop again. Her screen is dominated by an article which features a photograph of MASON VERGER and MARGOT VERGER.

END ACT ONE

 

\-----

 

ACT TWO

EXT. HANNIBAL’S HOUSE- TIME LAPSE

EXT. FACADE

Multiple winter days pass in a rapid time lapse across the face of Hannibal’s house. The yellow crime scene tape still hangs raggedly on the porch, but a white “For Sale” sign stands in the front yard. The broken window is covered with a plastic sheet on the inside of the house, but never fixed. No people interact with the house across the lapse.

EXT. FRONT YARD- DAY

Will Graham stands in the driveway and stares up at the house, hands in his jacket pockets. There is snow on the ground; the driveway is not plowed, and there is a trail of messy, shuffling footprints in the snow. He hunches up against the cold. A hat is pulled down over his head.

His car isn’t in the drive or on the side of the road. He walks up towards the house. Weird percussion-pipe music plays over the scene.

He tries the handle and looks surprised to find that it turns.

INT. HANNIBAL’S HOUSE- DAY

Will enters, closing the door behind himself. The house is completely empty, and protective plastic sheets have been thrown over some of the floors. The light inside is pale blue. Other than the lack of furniture or decoration, everything is completely intact, with no signs of robbery or vandalism.

Will’s breath freezes in the air- the heat is off. He trails one hand along the wall. He finds himself in the kitchen, which is one of the rooms with plastic tarp on the floor. The center of the tarp marks the spot on which Abigail died. 

Seen from on high, Will paces around the spot, stepping carefully. The sound of the plastic crunching is amplified by the silence.

As he passes by the spot, the metronome flashes, and the shape of WILL’S DOPPELGANGER appears beneath the tarp. The body visibly twitches under the plastic. He crouches over it.

It becomes clear that the body, which is otherwise his general shape, sports antlers. No distinct colors are seen through the white opaque plastic, just murky grey. It lets out the occasional raspy breath as it twitches, indicating life. Will hovers his hand a few inches away from it.

A soft thumping noise from the upper floor startles Will; he jerks away and turns to look back towards the stairs.

INT. UPPER FLOOR- DAY

Will reaches the top of the staircase, holding the bannister. There is a soft plastic rattling sound, from the tarp taped behind the broken third-story window blowing in the wind. There are trails of water leading up the stairs and down the corridor.

Alana Bloom leans heavily on metal crutches, staring at the window. The pale sunlight outside casts her in a halo. She tenses and releases her grip on the crutches over and over. She wears soft, neutral makeup.

Will begins to walk towards her, but stops himself several feet away from the square of light coming in through the window. He tries to look at her, but ends up looking at the floor near her feet instead.

WILL GRAHAM  
I heard you couldn’t walk.

ALANA BLOOM  
Damage isn’t always a permanent object.

WILL GRAHAM  
That’s… a healthy philosophy.

He draws his hand over his mouth. Alana turns to him, her crutches thudding on the ground. Her legs move awkwardly, as though she has to drag them. Her pants are wet a quarter of the way up her calves.

ALANA BLOOM  
Do you consider yourself capable of compassion, Will? Sympathy? Just because you understand something, what human thing inside of you obliges you to care?

WILL GRAHAM  
I should have called.

ALANA BLOOM  
_(laughing)_  
You should have pushed me out the window yourself.

Will shuffles and makes another attempt to approach her. He makes it up to the edge of the milky light from the window, and leans against the windowsill for support. He pulls the beanie off of his head and adjusts it, to give himself an excuse for not looking directly at her.

WILL GRAHAM  
I didn’t mean for you to be involved.

ALANA BLOOM  
The fact remains that I am.

Alana turns herself around to look out the window again. She starts to smile to herself.

ALANA BLOOM  
I used to think about how easily this could have been avoided if I’d listened to you. But the truth is, I was the constant in the equation, not the variable. I can only work with the input I’m given, and you weren’t much help in that regard.

 

WILL GRAHAM  
You were closer than I would have liked you to be. The situation was complicated.

ALANA BLOOM  
It wasn’t so complicated that you had any qualms about complicating it further.

She hobbles forward and catches the end of the tarp in her hand as it flutters in the wind.

ALANA BLOOM (CONT’D)  
It makes me wonder which of us you resented most. You wouldn’t pick a side. It could have been an easy decision, if you’d let it be one.

Will reacts sharply to that.

WILL GRAHAM  
It wasn’t about sides, and you know that. There weren’t any lines in the sand, where he was concerned. We become different people when we’re in pain.

ALANA BLOOM  
I’m not handling my pain the way you did.

WILL GRAHAM  
Aren’t you? We both turned it into fuel. Maybe you’re not burning yours as recklessly as I did mine. You’ll burn a little longer before you smother yourself.

Alana tugs on the corner of the tarp in her hands. The masking tape keeping it attached to the wall peels off slowly; when all the tape is unstuck, she lets the tarp crumple to the floor. Light pours in from outside. Will winces and turns away from the sudden change.

Alana sighs and tilts her head back, bathing in the warmth from the sun. In the light, she appears to have a subtle glimmer.

INT. KITCHEN- DAY (AFTERNOON)

The rest of the house is dark and bluish.

Will sits with his back against the pantry door. His hat is still held squished in his hand, and his gaze is trained on the tarp on the floor. The form of his doppelganger is still under the tarp, breathing slowly and heavily. Its antlers have grown since he left, and are now beginning to poke out of the end of the plastic.

Alana leans over the kitchen island, her crutches set off to the side. There is no indication that she can see or hear Will’s doppelganger under the tarp. When she speaks, Will glances back and forth periodically between her and the doppelganger.

ALANA BLOOM  
I thought I knew what Hannibal was. I thought that everything had to abide by the rules of the reality I’d lived in up to that point.

WILL GRAHAM  
Hannibal precludes reality by definition.

ALANA BLOOM  
I know. I’ve started giving unreality the benefit of the doubt. An absurd solution to an absurd problem.  
_(beat)_  
While we’re on the topic of the absurd, Dr. Chilton is under the impression that you’re going to run away with him. Go hunting.

WILL GRAHAM  
I’m not interested in Frederick. I don’t know what he told you, but I gave him a non-answer. More manners than he deserved.

ALANA BLOOM  
It’s not much of a surprise he would make such a tone-deaf proposal, but baffling all the same.

WILL GRAHAM  
None of us are innocent of baffling behavior. You climbed two flights of stairs on crutches.

ALANA BLOOM  
It makes sense for me to be here. I’ve considered buying the property. Dr. Chilton should know that you’re out of his price range.

WILL GRAHAM  
How did he react when you told him that?

ALANA BLOOM  
As expected. He’s gotten used to high mark-ups these past few months. Did you hear, he trademarked the phrase “Hannibal the Cannibal?”

WILL GRAHAM  
If there’s nothing else you can say about Frederick, he’s at least predictable.

ALANA BLOOM  
Consistency can be dangerous. If you hear something enough, you begin to believe it.

WILL GRAHAM  
I told you that I’m not interested.

ALANA BLOOM  
You can’t promise that you’ll stay that way.

WILL GRAHAM  
Everyone wants to talk about it. It’s the only thing they talk to me about. I don’t know how you expect me to forget about it long enough for it to stay forgotten, if you keep bringing it up. Stop treating me like a time bomb.

There is a long, uncomfortable pause. Alana reaches for her crutches and props herself back on them. She makes her way out of the kitchen, steps alternately scraping and thudding. From offscreen, the front door opens and shuts.

The figure beneath the tarp moans softly. The sound is half-human, and sounds just as much like Will’s voice as that of a wailing deer; hearing it, Will visibly stiffens. It moves, rattling the plastic, but its motions are aimless and almost spastic, seizing.

Will regards it with open hostility, even fear. He climbs to his feet and slowly approaches it. The closer he comes to it, the more violently the doppelganger moves.

Will stands above, looking directly down at it. He raises one foot and presses it down on top of the doppelganger’s plastic-covered head. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Its limbs are thrashing in a panic as Will applies more pressure, making half-human bleating noises.

The doppelganger’s head gives way with a wet crunch, like squishing a firm grape. Black liquid oozes from under the tarp.

EXT. FACADE- DAY

Will shuts the door behind himself, breathing as though he has just been running. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he watches Alana climb into the passenger side of her car and be driven away.

INT. ALANA’S CAR- DAY

Alana sits in the passenger seat of her car, hands folded in her lap; she wears a full face of makeup, and a sharp pantsuit. Her physical therapist is driving them down a wooded, gravel path, and he seems tense. It looks to be at least spring, the leaves showing growth and the ground being clear of snow.

DR. NEELAM  
You will be safe, won’t you?

ALANA BLOOM  
If you need deniability, you can always just close your eyes, Doctor. Worked for me.

Dr. Neelam gives her an exasperated, sidelong glance, which she ignores. Her eyes are focused dead ahead.

EXT. MUSKRAT FARM- DAY

The shot tracks Alana’s car as they drive up to the back side of the Verger property and park, but remains above and at a distance. Several of MASON’S MEN are positioned at strategic points around the house, and two of them come to greet her. She climbs out of the car and, using a cane, makes her way towards the stables. The two men flank her to escort her inside.

INT. MUSKRAT FARM- DAY

STABLE

Margot Verger carries her riding helmet under one arm as she strokes the side of her horse. Muffled footsteps catch her attention.

Alana is still being escorted by the two men; she moves as steadily as she can in spite of her limp and cane. Margot approaches. The three of them stop for her immediately, while she sizes up the goons.

MARGOT VERGER  
I can take her from here. I’m sure Mason wants our guest to develop a good impression of our hospitality.

The men share a look. One of them jerks his head back towards the stable entrance, before they peel off and walk back outside to their posts. As they depart, Alana takes another step forward and offers her hand, smiling.

ALANA BLOOM  
Is this my entrance?

MARGOT VERGER  
It can be.

Margot takes Alana’s hand, but rather than shaking it, she holds it up for inspection, forcing Alana to step even closer.

ALANA BLOOM  
I would have thought I’d be brought in through the front. Harder to stage an ambush from the front, I guess.

MARGOT VERGER  
Whichever door you come in through, we’re glad you could make it.

ALANA BLOOM  
I’m curious. Do I meet expectations?

MARGOT VERGER  
That remains to be seen.

She releases Alana’s hand and turns to lead her inside.

MARGOT VERGER (CONT’D)  
But your chances are good.

INT./ EXT. MUSKRAT FARM- DAY

DRAWING ROOM

The drawing room is high-ceilinged, over-decorated, and aristocratic, and none of the high windows have curtains on them. Margot enters, with Alana just behind her. They stop halfway through the room, Margot putting a hand out to mark for Alana that she should stay behind her.

ALANA BLOOM  
I doubt your brother is as selective as you are.

MARGOT VERGER  
_(over her shoulder)_  
Men don’t have to be.  
_(forwards, calling)_  
Mason, dear?

EXT. BALCONY- DAY

At the other end of the room, the windows open onto a balcony, where Mason sits in an electric wheelchair facing the grounds. His bodyguard and manservant, CORDELL, leans against the banister, leafing through a book. Cordell is late middle-aged, at least in his 50s, balding, and heavyset. Mason doesn’t turn around, but he does tilt his head to the side.

MASON VERGER  
_(muffled)_  
Yes, Margot, darling mine?

MARGOT VERGER (O.S)  
Dr. Bloom is here.

Mason “ahh”s as he operates the wheelchair’s control pad with his one good hand in order to turn himself to face them. Cordell doesn’t even look up from his reading.

Mason’s face is covered from the bridge of the nose down with a beige plastic mask, the mould decorated with full, doll-like lips. He lifts his good hand and beckons to Alana with a flick of his wrist.

MASON VERGER  
_(muffled)_  
Margot, there will be no more need of you today, the adults are going to talk now.

Alana smiles and walks forward onto the balcony, slowly and with some visible effort, leaning on her cane.

ALANA BLOOM  
Very rude, Mr. Verger. What if I’m interested in your sister’s perspective?

MASON VERGER  
_(muffled)_  
Then I’m afraid you’re S-O-L, Dr. Bloom, because my sister is not the one here offering you employment. I am. Margot?

Alana looks over her shoulder, to see Margot pointedly sit on one of the room’s stiff chaises, ankles crossed and helmet beside her. Alana raises her eyebrows, and in response Margot smiles wanly. 

Mason directs his wheelchair backwards towards the railing. Cordell marks the page in his book and sets it down, intuiting his master’s needs.

MASON VERGER  
_(muffled)_  
Cordell, my mask? I want to make sure nothing I have to say is lost on our guest. It gets very muggy under this thing.

Cordell carefully unbuckles the mask, setting it in Mason’s lap. Mason’s horribly scarred face is finally revealed in full: skin grafts have been able to provide the most cursory repair to the damage, giving him a semblance of lips and reconstructing some of the lost cartilage of his nose. His skin is badly mottled and misshapen from the destruction and reconstruction. He flexes his jaw and cracks his neck.

MASON VERGER  
Better and better. Thank you, Cordell.  
_(to Alana)_  
My valet, bodyguard, and dietician. He takes excellent care of me.

Alana does not look at Cordell, who now stands at Mason’s right hand, just maintains her pleasant smile as she follows Mason onto the balcony.

ALANA BLOOM  
A pleasure. The offer?

MASON VERGER  
Don’t rush me, Dr. Bloom, there’ll be time enough for that. We have a first order of business. Do you believe in Jesus Christ? Have you been saved?

Alana looks dumbstruck at the question, and laughs a little in disbelief.

ALANA BLOOM  
I can’t say that I do, Mr. Verger.

MASON VERGER  
Oh, of course, I should have realized. ‘Bloom.’ You’re Jewish. Well, that’s alright, more or less, if you don’t mind getting into heaven through the back door.

ALANA BLOOM  
You misunderstand. I’ve never been much for faith, and recently I believe that I have become even less so.

MASON VERGER  
Well. Unfortunate for your soul, but all the better for your palate if you stay for dinner. You understand why we don’t keep kosher around here.  
I used to be a lost soul, much like yourself, mired in sin and depravity. Given all that up now, obviously, taken the path of the Lord. I was struck blind, and the Almighty will heal me when I do his works, you understand?

ALANA BLOOM  
In a way. What does the Almighty have planned for Hannibal Lecter?

MASON VERGER  
_(with an ugly laugh)_  
You are a bulldog. I’m sure Hannibal appreciated the strength of your jaw- spitters are quitters, and you don’t strike me as a quitter Dr. Bloom.

INT. DRAWING ROOM- DAY

Margot stands up and leaves, rigid, like she’s just barely keeping herself in check. Mason’s laugh continues in the background, half snorting.

EXT. BALCONY- DAY

Alana tilts her head up to look down at him, unimpressed. She shifts her weight back, extending an arm out to lean against the door frame.

ALANA BLOOM  
Maybe that’s what I have to thank for not ending up…

She uses her cane to tap the rim of his wheelchair hard, leaving it ringing. She brings it back to the ground.

ALANA BLOOM (CONT’D)  
He was hoping I’d die. I think it demonstrates a favorable opinion of me, that he didn’t intend for me to suffer.

MASON VERGER  
You’ve got chutzpah, Bloom. It’s a real turn-on. But don’t count on that trick working twice; hard to get it up these days, you know.

He laughs again and smacks the arm of the wheelchair with his remaining good hand. However, something goes wrong this time, and he chokes, spittle and mucus rolling down his chin while he hacks and coughs. 

Cordell kneels down to wipe Mason’s face with a pocket kerchief. His hand presses to Mason’s abdomen.

CUT to focus on Alana.

ALANA BLOOM  
Mr. Verger.

CORDELL (O.S.)  
Deep breaths, sir.

MASON VERGER (O.S.)  
_(coughing, breathless)_  
Christ’s sake…!

ALANA BLOOM  
_(talking over him)_  
You should know, there’s competition. Will Graham is going to go looking for him, my guess is sooner rather than later. You can call me a harpy, or a bitch, if that makes you feel better about answering to someone, but if you want to catch Hannibal, you’ll listen to me.

Mason has stopped coughing, but he makes a sickly wheezing sound, an oxygen mask now held to his mouth by Cordell’s hand. He flicks his wrist weakly and Cordell removes the mask.

MASON VERGER  
You know Will Graham.

ALANA BLOOM  
I wouldn’t have mentioned him otherwise.

MASON VERGER  
Huh. You hear the part where he knocked up my sister?

ALANA BLOOM  
So, trying to feed him to the pigs wasn’t a rumor. Very Titus Andronicus of you.  
_(beat)_  
You can’t shock me, Mr. Verger, I had an affair with a man who brewed beer with human remains. My job ends when it ends; I don’t want to know what you do with him after I leave. As long as he ends up here. 

MASON VERGER  
I knew you’d be the right choice. One of God’s righteous angels.

ZOOM on Alana’s face, smirking.

ALANA BLOOM  
If you want to call it that. I’ve got a weakness for a little Old Testament revenge.

END ACT TWO

 

\-----

 

ACT THREE

EXT. QUANTICO FBI BUILDING- TIME LAPSE

Still establishing shot of the FBI building, light quickly fading from morning to evening.

INT. QUANTICO FBI BUILDING- NIGHT (EVENING)

JACK CRAWFORD’S OFFICE

Jack sits behind his desk, leaning over a small stack of papers with a pen in his hand. The room is dim, his work lit by a desk lamp. His other hand rubs circles on his temple. He is clearly not reading, because his eyes have not moved once.

Two brusque knocks at the door prompt Jack to drop his hand and look up. KADE PURNELL enters the office.

JACK CRAWFORD  
Director Purnell. What can I do for you, ma’am?

KADE PURNELL  
I don’t want to have to bust your balls, Jack.

JACK CRAWFORD  
With all due respect, it sounds like you’re still going to. I can guess why you’re here.

Kade sits in the chair across from Jack without being invited.

KADE PURNELL  
You haven’t spoken to him.

JACK CRAWFORD  
I am taking care of it.

KADE PURNELL  
Don’t lie to me. If you were, I would not have to be here.

JACK CRAWFORD  
Will Graham no longer works or consults with the FBI, and he is not willing to yet. He’s not ready to get back on the horse. A few months ago, you would have supported taking this extra caution with him.

KADE PURNELL  
Several months ago, he was not guilty of a murder. Nor was he implicated in conspiring with serial killers.

JACK CRAWFORD  
I’m not commenting on an investigation you yourself put on hold.

KADE PURNELL  
Let me make the current situation abundantly clear: I cannot hold back the tide with red tape forever. Everyone is beholden to someone, even me- and as of right now, especially you. I put a stopper on it for your sake, because I trust you. I do not trust Will Graham.

JACK CRAWFORD  
He wants the same thing that we do, but I don’t have a time frame on when he’ll be willing to pursue it. If I went to him now with a deal, I think he’d take jail.

KADE PURNELL  
Then let him. He’ll find we’re not bluffing.

JACK CRAWFORD  
Kade, I promise you, if Will Graham goes to prison, Hannibal Lecter never will.

KADE PURNELL  
I don’t know what you want to hear from me.

JACK CRAWFORD  
I want to hear that I have time.

Kade falls silent, staring him down- he is not going to get any more time from her.

Jack checks the clock. He gets to his feet and buttons his suit jacket.

JACK CRAWFORD  
I need to get home to my wife. I like to be there when she wakes up.

INT. CRAWFORD BEDROOM- NIGHT

Liquid drips down the tubes of an IV in a dark room. A shadow passes in front of the single light source, with a gentle rustle of wind, and moves on.

Jack sits under a lamp with his reading glasses on, reading a book. Across from him, in the shadowed places of the room, Bella lies in bed, asleep, breathing slowly and laboriously. Her heart monitor beeps continuously through the scene.

Without prompting, Jack sets his book down, leaving it open in his lap, and looks out at Bella’s bed.

JACK CRAWFORD  
Bella?

He pauses for a few moments to allow her to rouse and respond. No response. He closes the book and sets it off to the side, and folds his glasses on top of it.

Jack rises from his chair and walks to the medicine cabinet on the other side of Bella’s bed. 

He takes a syringe and a bottle out of the cabinet. His hands are shaking, so he takes his time. He draws out a measure of liquid into the syringe, and nearly drops them. He sets everything down on the nightstand and clenches his fists.

Jack runs his hand over Bella’s hair and down the side of her face. She doesn’t move. Sitting in a chair beside her bed, he takes her hand between two of his and holds it to his lips.

SERIES OF SHOTS

A) A plunger is pressed on the head of a syringe  
B) Liquid moving through an IV line  
C) A drop of ink swirling as it is diluted in water, panning up to look at the water from above its surface  
D) The dark water of a slow-moving stream at night, shakily reflecting the moon  
E) The face of Will Graham’s house, at night, with the lights still on inside, on the first floor.

INT. WILL GRAHAM’S HOUSE- NIGHT

LIVING ROOM

The room is lit a dingy yellow from a couple of floor lamps. Will’s phone goes off and buzzes repeatedly on a coffee table. Dogs start barking at this unusual development.

Leaving his scotch precariously on the armrest Will gets up from his armchair and wades through several excited dogs to pick up his phone. He checks the caller ID and frowns tightly before answering.

WILL GRAHAM  
_(into phone)_  
Jack?

INT. CRAWFORD KITCHEN- NIGHT

Jack sits at the kitchen table, his phone to his ear and his own glass of scotch sitting in front of him. The room is completely silent.

JACK CRAWFORD  
_(into phone)_  
I wasn’t sure you’d answer on the first try.

WILL GRAHAM (V.O.)  
You sound drunk, Jack.

JACK CRAWFORD  
_(into phone)_  
Not surprising. She went tonight. All said and done, it was… quick.

INTERCUT BETWEEN WILL AND JACK

Will scrubs a hand over his mouth and takes a heavy breath.

WILL GRAHAM  
_(into phone)_  
Jesus.

JACK CRAWFORD  
_(into phone)_  
I know you’re ignoring your mail, figured a call was my only chance. You should be there-- at the funeral. Two weeks from now, something like that.

WILL GRAHAM  
_(into phone)_  
I’ll go if you want me there. I’ll, uh, have to put the engine in the car.

JACK CRAWFORD  
_(into phone)_  
It doesn’t take two weeks to put an engine in a car.

WILL GRAHAM  
_(into phone)_  
Did you get to talk to her?

JACK CRAWFORD  
_(into phone)_  
She didn’t wake up tonight. I kept her here so long and it didn’t give her a thing in the end. Not an inch of relief.

Will crosses the room to get his drink.

WILL GRAHAM  
_(into phone)_  
You’re not a monster for not letting go.

Will takes a belt of scotch. Jack does the same.

JACK CRAWFORD  
_(into phone)_  
I didn’t say I was. But I’m always going to wonder if I had the right, asking her to stay for me when we knew how it was going to end.

WILL GRAHAM (V.O.)  
Jack, I’m… sorry. I don’t know what to…

JACK CRAWFORD  
_(into phone)_  
You don’t have to say anything.  
_(he drinks)_  
You know, if she could hear me right now, she wouldn’t let me get away with thinking I could make her do anything she didn’t choose to. She looked it full in the face every day, and decided she wasn’t going to let go. I ought to remember that. Whatever the right choice was, this was the one she made with me.

Will sags back down into his armchair, and presses the glass, now emptied, to his forehead.

WILL GRAHAM  
_(to himself)_  
Damage isn’t always a permanent object.

JACK CRAWFORD  
_(into phone)_  
All I ever wanted was all every man wants. And I feel suddenly like I have an excess of it, because time didn’t stop with her.

WILL GRAHAM  
_(into phone)_  
It should have.

JACK CRAWFORD  
_(into phone)_  
No, it shouldn’t have. I just wish that it would. I have to stay here and do right by her until it does; only thing you can do.

Will takes the glass away from his forehead and sets it on the table, looking plaintively at the ceiling.

WILL GRAHAM  
_(into phone)_  
I’ll see you at the funeral. Goodnight, Jack.

Will ends the call and tosses his phone into another armchair. He rubs his eyes, then sighs resignedly, climbs to his feet, and picks up his glass again. There’s only one thing he can do.

He turns off all of the lights, so that the room is only visible by the moonlight through the window. The music is low and droning and the room is visible only in shades of grey and blue. Will still has his glass in his hand, and he goes to the window ledge where he keeps the bottles of booze.

EXT. WILL’S HOUSE- NIGHT

Seen through the window, Will pours more whiskey into his glass. Something outside catches his eye, and he looks up. He leans closer to the glass, close enough for his breath to fog it up.

The doppelganger crouches on its hands and feet like a feral person, in the grass in front of Will’s house, silhouetted in the moonlight so that none of its features are visible. Large elk antlers extend from its head. Its only movements come from its quick, shallow breathing. As though it knows Will is watching it back, it holds its breath.

Will takes a long drink of whiskey. He turns away from the window and moves out of sight.

INT. WILL’S HOUSE- NIGHT

KITCHEN

The room appears initially still, and is only lit by an uneven rectangle of moonlight that stretches across the linoleum, the appliances, the countertop. No music plays. The only sounds are a slow, thick dripping noise, and the smack of sticky, wet skin touching and peeling away from the ground.

The doppelganger crawls across the kitchen floor on its hands and feet. Its skin is a shiny, oily dark grey. It takes long strides, like a wild cat. Viewed from the side, its face is clearly destroyed and caved in, and it leaks a steady stream of black liquid from its head and neck. The black blood leaves a smeared trail behind it.

LIVING ROOM

Will sits in his armchair, calmly nursing his whiskey. He faces the doppelganger as it approaches him. 

It comes to a stop only a foot in front of him and reaches a hand out towards him, with the other hand on the arm of the chair for balance. It tries to open its mouth, but an excess of black liquid pours out of its misshapen jaws and onto the floor and Will’s bare feet.

Will lifts one foot and shoves the doppelganger away. The doppelganger falls weakly to the side and goes limp, antlers clattering and black liquid pooling around it. Will looks immediately surprised that it refuses to fight back.

The doppelganger begins shuddering and crying in a voice identical to Will’s. It gurgles around the blood in its throat. Will sets his whiskey aside and covers his eyes.

WILL GRAHAM  
Please stop. I know you want Hannibal. I know. Be quiet.

The doppelganger quiets down and curls its body tightly inward. Will crumples and slides out of his chair to kneel on the floor. He touches the doppelganger’s hide and shushes it gently. It wraps its hands up in his shirt. Black soaks into his clothes and stains his skin.

WILL GRAHAM  
_(whispering)_  
I’m sorry. I don’t want to do this either, anymore. Aren’t you tired?

The doppelganger pulls itself up into a sitting position and buries its leaking head against Will’s chest. Its antlers pin him to the armchair behind him. 

Will runs a hand over his forehead and through the front fringe of his hair, accidentally smudging the doppelganger’s blood on himself.

CUT to Will standing, staring out the window with the bottle of whiskey in hand beside a full glass. He has no black stains on him. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  
Will takes his phone off of the armchair where he tossed it and scrolls through his contacts. He finds what he is looking for, and presses the call button. The phone rings three times before whoever is on the other line finally picks up.

FREDERICK CHILTON (V.O.)  
Hello?

WILL GRAHAM  
_(into phone)_  
Frederick. A while back you gave me a rain check on human decency.

FREDERICK CHILTON (V.O.)  
I remember. Have you grown any scar tissue?

WILL GRAHAM  
_(into phone)_  
Not much. Keep picking at the scab. That’s where you come in, isn’t it?

FREDERICK CHILTON (V.O.)  
_(surprised)_  
You really have been considering it.  
_(beat)_  
Well. If that’s as close to a compliment as we’ll get, I’ll clear my schedule. Expect me tomorrow.

The other line clicks and goes dead- Frederick hung up.

Will looks at his darkened phone for a moment, before he tosses it onto his bed. He walks to the door and steps outside. The dogs wake up and notice him leaving, and follow him.

EXT. WILL’S HOUSE- NIGHT

Will steps out onto the grass in his bare feet. Dogs stream out around him and into the yard. He walks all the way to the gravel drive. A shot of his feet stepping onto the gravel and walking a few paces, carefully, until he moves out of the shot.

FADE to a paved sidewalk at midday lighting, where the next pair of feet to enter the shot are wearing pointed-toe, dark blue high-heeled shoes.

EXT. FRENCH SIDE STREET- DAY

BEDELIA DU MAURIER walks down the street, all of her clothes in muted blue, with a wide brimmed hat obscuring her face and a large handbag. Her surroundings are beige, brown, and black, and she sticks out like a sore thumb. She keeps her head down, but she otherwise holds herself properly, like a queen. The street is cobbled and not very busy and the buildings which line it are short and pressed close together, the stereotype of a quiet country village.

She arrives at a small charcuterie, and looks over her shoulder before entering.

INT. CHARCUTERIE- DAY

The inside of the charcuterie is unlit, and the CHARCUTIERE hums off key to himself. A brace of pheasants hang upside down on the far side of the counter, not yet plucked, and an array of cured meats and containers line shelves and counters.

The door opens with the inoffensive ring of a bell; as Bedelia enters, light spreads across the room, only to disappear again when the door shuts. She takes her leather gloves off- also blue- and puts them into her handbag.

BEDELIA DU MAURIER  
Bonjour. Des tartufi bianci et deux bouteilles du Bâtard Montrachet, s’il-vous-plaît.

CHARCUTIERE  
Un moment, madame.

Bedelia retrieves a wallet from her bag and thumbs through a thick sheaf of euros. She pauses and glances around the charcuterie, browsing. She looks down again at the money in her hand, almost bored.

BEDELIA DU MAURIER  
La mousse truffée aussi, monsieur.

Bedelia sets her money on the counter, and takes two wine bottles and a paper bag from the charcutiere, which she tucks into her large handbag.

BEDELIA DU MAURIER  
Merci.

She turns and exits, the doorbell chiming as she goes.

EXT. TRAIN PLATFORM- DAY

Her back to the train tracks, Bedelia sits on a bench with her handbag tucked in close to her side. She taps her toe, keeping an even pace. Turning her head, she scans the room, until she finds the security camera.

From the perspective of the security camera, Bedelia is seen from a high angle, only the lower half of her face visible from under her hat. She still looks directly at the camera, clearly, even if her eyes can’t be seen. She smiles.

The train pulls into place behind her, and she picks up her things and walks out of frame.

CUT TO BLACK

END ACT THREE

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone humors me enough to get to this point, thank you. Newcomers should be warned that my updating habits are absolutely awful, and I can make no promises as to when the next 'episode' will be finished. Apologies to any and all who have been offended by this work or by my criticisms of Season Three, Bryan Fuller, etc. I can only hope that you are fewer in number than those I have managed to entertain.


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